


A Gift of Onion Soup

by crossingwinter



Series: ASOIAF Drabbles & Ficlets [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis doesn’t do gifts the same way everyone else does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift of Onion Soup

He comes home to the smell of onions.

Not onions raw and thrown into a salad bowl—sweet onions, sweating onions, onions that are being cooked in butter.

It’s jarring to say the least.

“Hello?” he calls, shrugging off his coat and trying not to drip melting snow onto the parquet floor.

“Damn.” is the response.

“Stan?” he tries again, throwing the coat onto the hook over a garbage bag laid flat on the ground so that the snow melt won’t ruin the wood.  He pops his scarf and hat onto the hook as well, then begins unzipping his fleece.

“You’re home early!” he hears Stannis grumble.

“The roads were going to be dangerous, so they let us out early,” Davos replied.  “I passed three accidents on the way home.  Idiots who don’t know how to stay in lanes when the roads are bad.” He toes off his snow boots and places them on the garbage bag next to Stannis’ galoshes.  “What are you making?”  He tries to sound nonchalant.

It’s a distinct challenge.

Stannis isn’t the type to cook food.  Indeed, Davos wouldn’t be surprised if it had taken him about thirty minutes to find where all the appropriate tools were.  Stannis was the type to order takeout from one of the same three restaurants—always the same dish from each place, too: chicken curry, sausage pizza, or barbecued ribs.  

“Onion soup.”

“Onion soup?”

“Onion soup.”

“Why onion soup?”  Davos rounds the doorway into the kitchen and sees Stannis standing at the island, a wooden spoon in one hand.  It looks like he’s prodding the onions more than stirring them.

“Felt like it,” mumbles Stannis.

Davos grins.  “I can see that.”

“Can’t a man feel like making onion soup for his husband?”

“Sure,” shrugs Davos.  

As if on cue, Stannis practically growls, “That’s it, then?”

“Well, you didn’t seem to want me to press any further,” Davos says innocently, wrapping his arms around Stannis’ waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.  Stannis continues to poke the onions.  “I think you can add the broth now,” says Davos.

“You know, I can do this,” Stannis snaps.  “It’s not like I’ve never cooked anything.”

Davos bites his lip.  “Of course not.”

“I’ve lived a long life.  Some of that has been spent in a kitchen, I’ll have you know.”

“Yes, dear.”

Stannis reaches over to the box of broth, opens it, and pours it into the pot.

“It was supposed to be a surprise.  A gift,” Stannis complains watching as the white onion juices begin to swirl and mix with the yellow of the chicken stock.

“I know.”  Stannis doesn’t do gifts the same way everyone else does. It’s one of the things that Davos loves about him.

“You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour.”

“Also true.  For what it’s worth, it’s still a pleasant surprise.”

He could almost feel Stannis’ eyes rolling through the side of his head.

“It would have been better if I’d been here in my smoking jacket with my pipe and the soup was ready for consumption as I’d planned.”

“Eh.”  Davos kissed Stannis’ neck.  “I would have liked it better if you’d been naked.”

Stannis leaned back so that he could look at Davos out of the corner of his eye.  “You know,” he said balefully, “this soup needs to come back to a boil…”

Davos’ hands were already on Stannis’ fly, a smile curling at his lips.


End file.
